


mystery spot

by killerqueenwrites



Series: family business – supernatural au [6]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Found Family, Gen, Language, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Whump, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, excess of temporary character death, give tony a break he's having a very bad tuesday, the plot is moving, things are happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueenwrites/pseuds/killerqueenwrites
Summary: Tony’s trying to enjoy his morning coffee – shouldn’t be a huge ask – when something garishly colourful is slapped down on the countertop under his nose. Apparently, it is too difficult of an ask.He slowly lifts his eyes to meet his kid’s eager gaze. “And what the fuck is this?”“Our next super-fun family vacation!” Peter chirps.Tony looks down again, trying his best to focus, until he reads ‘Mystery Spot! Where the laws of physics have no meaning!’ and instantly taps out. “Yeah, good try, kid. That shit’s all fake.”“Funny, ‘cause I would’ve said that about heart-attack ghosts and evil genies less than a year ago.”“Touché.”or, it's Tuesday.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: family business – supernatural au [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1484696
Comments: 34
Kudos: 177





	mystery spot

**Author's Note:**

> yes i know it’s been 84 years leave me alone
> 
> on this day, after supernatural wrapped filming for the final time on thursday, on the fifteenth anniversary of the pilot, on the anniversary of the first fic in this series, on my birthday, i present: mystery spot
> 
> usual warnings for guns, blood, language, and in this case, temporary character death. enjoy!

Peter. He has to get to Peter.  
  
There’s blood, so much blood, and the kid is screaming, he’s crying for him. His nails are dragging along the ground as a dark shape drags him backwards by the ankle. He’s drowning, fighting to reach the surface. Bleeding out, his throat torn open. Gasping out a rattling breath around the claws embedded in his chest. Cold, still, pale, in a hospital bed, attacked when he was supposed to be safe.  
  
Tony can’t save him.  
  
He blinks and Peter isn’t there anymore, but something is, a familiar shadow in the mist. Slick black hair, pale blue eyes, a golden helmet with curved horns. Six-legged demons rage around them, held back by hunters with only their knives and guns and wits to keep them alive.  
  
One hand raises the sword, gripping it tightly, and he charges towards the figure. It’s nearly over. He can finish this.  
  
“Tony?” His mother’s voice. “Tony? Tony! Tony!”  
  
“Mom!” he cries. Where is she? She’s fighting somewhere. “Mom?”  
  
“Tony–!”  
  


* * *

  
He wakes up with a gasp, hits the floor with a thump.  
  
His mom. No. She’s gone.  
  
 _But she was there.  
_  
And Peter. _Peter_.  
  
He stumbles out of his room, legs shaking, and doesn’t get far, slides down the wall. He needs to get to Peter – needs to see him.  
  
He needs to save him.  
  
Something’s coming, something big. He can feel it, circling around them like a pack of wolves, circling around the _kid_. Shit, what are they going to do?  
  
Footsteps. A voice he knows better than almost anything. “Hey, hey, breathe! Tony–“  
  
Tony knows he has to, knows his heart has been off ever since Rhodey had to revive him from a near coma. The heart-stopping fear spirit hadn’t done him much good, either. None of that is important in the slightest, though, not when Peter’s sleeping down the hall. “Shut up!”  
  
Rhodey just sighs, an indicator of how long he’s been putting up with Tony’s shit. “Kid sleeps like a log, even without the long-distance run he dragged me on today. Or yesterday, I guess.” He also seems to know exactly what Tony needs, without being told, at any given moment. “Now, I’m gonna squeeze your hand. Focus on that. Whatever you think you saw, it wasn’t real. This is.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”  
  
“What did that thing make you see?” Rhodey says.  
  
Tony waves away the question. “You can still get a couple hours in if you go back to bed now.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
He shrugs.  
  
“Nah, that’s not flying with me. We could find a case at any given moment. You need to rest.” Rhodey pauses. “It wasn’t your mom, was it? ‘Cause you’ve been so much better since Peter–“  
  
“No.” May as well lie a little.  
  
“What did you see?” Rhodey says again. “Lie to the kid if you want, Tones. Don’t lie to me.”  
  
“I saw you dead,” Tony whispers, unable to hold onto it any longer. “You, Pep, Mom and Dad – and Peter. Him the most. Over and over. He kept dying.”  
  
“We killed the thing. It’s gone. It wasn’t real, man.”  
  
“I know, but I’m still scared it is.”  
  
“That’s the anxiety, Tony.”  
  
“Great! How do I get rid of it.”  
  
“For now? Breathe.” Rhodey squeezes his hand again. “You’re here, you’re good. Kid’s good. Everything’s good.”  
  
Tony nods. “Okay. Okay, I’m good. Thanks.”  
  
“Anytime, man. Look, we got him a necklace and a tattoo. The house is warded. He hasn’t had a dream since his birthday. Maybe it was just a one-time deal.”  
  
“And maybe not.”  
  
“Maybe not,” Rhodey says heavily. “We just gotta keep an eye on him.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony says. “I’m gonna go downstairs. You better get some more sleep.”  
  
Rhodey pats him on the back and makes his way back to bed.  
  


* * *

  
Tony’s trying to enjoy his morning coffee – shouldn’t be a huge ask – when something garishly colourful is slapped down on the countertop under his nose. Apparently, it is too difficult of an ask.  
  
He slowly lifts his eyes to meet his kid’s eager gaze. “And what the fuck is this?”  
  
“Our next super-fun family vacation!” Peter chirps.  
  
Tony looks down again, trying his best to focus, until he reads ‘Mystery Spot! Where the laws of physics have no meaning!’ and instantly taps out. “Yeah, good try, kid. That shit’s all fake.”  
  
“Funny, ‘cause I would’ve said that about heart-attack ghosts and evil genies less than a year ago.”  
  
“Touché.”  
  
Another piece of paper joins the first, this one a missing poster for a man maybe in his sixties.  
  
“Where is this all coming from?”  
  
“We do have a printer in the library. C’mon, _listen_. This Mr Hasselback guy is missing, and his daughter said the last time she spoke to him, he was going to visit the Broward County mystery spot.”  
  
Tony squints at Peter for a moment, trying to place the name. “Florida? You want to go to Florida?”  
  
“Maybe this can be our Disney World.”  
  
“Christ,” Tony mutters, but he can’t help a grin. “Well, shit, as good as Disney World? I’m sold.”  
  
“And cheaper! With a mystery vanishing dude. What more could you want?” Peter smirks. He knows he’s won.  
  
“You done all your homework?”  
  
“It’s Sunday.”  
  
“Right, and tomorrow is Monday. The sky is blue. Water is wet. You want to trek down to Florida which will take a chunk of time that you could be using to do schoolwork. Any more obvious facts you want me to share?”  
  
Peter stares, unimpressed. Tony stares right back. Finally, the kid huffs out a breath and looks down. “Still got some Calculus to do.”  
  
“Well, then, there’s your answer.”  
  
“ _Ugh_.”  
  
“Calculus first. Mystery spot later.”  
  
“What’s for lunch?” Peter calls as he traipses back upstairs.  
  
“Haven’t decided yet. Make sure you actually do Calculus instead of case hunting, yeah?”  
  
“I wasn’t looking! It just popped up!”  
  
“What, in your Calculus textbook?”  
  
Peter flashes him the finger before he disappears. A moment later, his bedroom door closes.  
  
“Little shit!” Tony yells, and finishes his coffee.  
  
Rhodey appears from the training room, sweaty and out of breath. “What was that about?”  
  
“Kid found a case. Maybe. If it turns out to be nothing, we get a free vacation out of it. You in?”  
  
“Always.”  
  


* * *

  
“So,” Rhodey says as they tear into their burgers and fries, “what’s this case you found?”  
  
“You mean you didn’t download it from the hive mind you two have?”  
  
Mr Stark snorts. “Answer the question, smart-ass.”  
  
“Uh, so there’s a missing guy. Last his daughter heard, he was going to visit some mystery spot, and now he’s MIA.”  
  
“Could be something,” Rhodey says, nodding. “Long way down to Florida, though. Anyone down that way we could give a heads-up?”  
  
“Not last I heard,” Mr Stark says. “You know Romanoff and Barton go all over.”  
  
Peter takes a sip of his drink. “Could we fly down? Rent a car?”  
  
“Could do. Miami’s closest, right? No, Fort Lauderdale, maybe.”  
  
“Always a bitch getting what we need through security, though,” Rhodey says.  
  
“But it’s doable,” Mr Stark argues, “and it’s a twenty-hour drive.”  
  
Rhodey nods. “So how about we all fly down tomorrow, you two drive ahead and check if it’s anything worth looking at, and if not, we have a few days of vacation? Think we could all use it.”  
  
“Sounds good. Nice work, kid.” Mr Stark smiles at him. “How’s your tattoo?”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“You remember what the guy said, about looking after it?” Mr Stark doesn’t wait for answer, instead putting his drink down. “Here, let me see.”  
  
“Oh, my God,” Peter laughs. “It’s fine. Peeling normally. All good. I know what an infection looks like.”  
  
Mr Stark narrows his eyes for a moment, but gives up. “And no weird dreams?”  
  
“No weird dreams,” Peter says. “Still got my, uh, thing, too.” He gestures to the thin chain around his wrist.  
  
“Thing,” Rhodey repeats with a smirk. “Just a _thing_. No big deal. Anyway, tell me about how this case magically appeared in your Calculus work.”  
  
“Really?” Peter whines. “You’re ganging up on me now?”  
  


* * *

  
“Rhodey.”  
  
“Shut up, I’m trying to watch a movie.”  
  
“The kid’s asleep on me.”  
  
“I’m putting my headphones back in.”  
  
“Rhodey, I can’t feel my arm.”  
  
“Enjoy, _Dad_.”  
  


* * *

  
They leave the motel a few hours after checking in, quickly packing what they need in one of the rental cars while Rhodey watches with a look of concern on his face.  
  
“Hey, you sure you’re good for this?” he says, pulling Tony aside.  
  
“‘Course. If it’s anything, I’ll call you. Won’t be more than a day.”  
  
“Alright, but be careful,” Rhodey says seriously. “Keep me updated. Remember what happened last time you two took a case without me?”  
  
“What happened the last time you two took a case without _me_?” Peter mutters on his way past.  
  
“The attitude of this kid,” Tony says. “Guy nearly dies a couple times, and his kid loses all respect for him.”  
  
Rhodey shrugs. “A couple of times is maybe a couple of times too many.”  
  
“Not in this job.” Tony hoists his bag up and onto his shoulder.  
  
“Be careful. I mean it. You want me, just call. I’ll drive the rest of the way down.”  
  
“It’s probably nothing.”  
  
“Probably.” Rhodey’s eyes are searching. “Still.”  
  
Peter pokes his head back in, glancing between them. “Are we going?”  
  
“Yep. Be right out.”  
  
“See you soon, Rhodey.”  
  
“Bye, kid.”  
  


* * *

  
“I promise we can listen to something that isn’t AC/DC.”  
  
“Led Zeppelin?” Mr Stark suggests.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Black Sabbath.”  
  
“Kill me now,” Peter mutters.  
  
Mr Stark smirks over at him. “You know the house rules, kiddo.”  
  
“Driver picks the music, shotgun – whatever. How’d you get AC/DC in a rental car?”  
  
“The magic of classic rock. And also Bluetooth.”  
  
Peter rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing.  
  
“Moot, anyway. Here’s the hotel.” Mr Stark turns into the parking lot and pulls up. “Wait here while I go check in.”  
  
Peter sighs and stretches his legs. He’s never travelled quite so much before: the early-morning drive to the airport, the three-hour flight, the drive to the first hotel where they left Rhodey and now another hour in the car to here. He’s so tired and stiff, and he’s barely done anything.  
  
“Let’s go,” Mr Stark says, opening the back door and pulling his bag out. “Got a map from reception. Our room’s right here.”  
  
“Good.” Peter gets out of the car and stretches again. “Ugh, is there any way we can, like, teleport back up? That was so _long_.”  
  
Mr Stark shakes his head with a grin. “Come on, weary traveller. Here’s the key. Go open the door for me. Number thirteen.”  
  
“Unlucky, much?” Peter pushes the door open and walks inside, throwing his jacket on the bed furthest from the door and wandering over to make sure the windows are locked. It’s instinct formed from habit at this point, a habit Mr Stark had insisted on since the _shtriga_.  
  
“Lovely tasteful decor,” Mr Stark says behind him.  
  
“What is this?” Peter prods a weird oblong thing on the bedside table, eyebrows pulled together in confusion.  
  
“Radio alarm clock.”  
  
“Haven’t they heard of cell phones?”  
  
“Haven’t you heard of helping? Come on, this is your case. You found it. Grab the map and we’ll start marking out places we need to look. We’ll start first thing tomorrow.”  
  
“Why not today?”  
  
“Planning and preparation, kid. Also, I’m tired and I want some sleep.”  
  
“Priorities,” Peter says, and then almost cracks his jaw yawning.  
  
“Yeah, and I’m right. Can’t hunt if you’re falling asleep. You want food, or just want to go to bed?”  
  
“Always food,” Peter says, and just catches the fond grin Mr Stark shoots at him.  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
Something shifts in the bed beside Tony, letting out a sleepy groan.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages,” Peter mumbles, his hair mussed, eyes bleary.  
  
“Neither,” Tony agrees, and yawns. “Fuck, I need coffee.”  
  
“Yeah, and can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
“Get dressed. There’s a diner down the road.”  
  
Peter groans but rolls out of bed, grabbing something out of his case and sloping to the bathroom. Teenagers.  
  
“Why am I up first?” he yells through the door.  
  
“Because I’m the adult.”  
  
Peter grumbles something indecipherable that Tony decides he’ll let him get away with, and appears only a moment later in jeans and a grey T-shirt.  
  
“‘If you believe in telekinesis, raise my hand’?” Tony reads. “Fuck’s sake.”  
  
“MJ got it for me.”  
  
“Your generation has questionable humour. At best.”  
  
Peter’s stomach growls, and he looks up at Tony pointedly.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting ready.”  
  


* * *

  
“It’s Tuesday, right?” Peter’s brow furrows as he reads the boards outside the diner. “What’s a pig and a poke?”  
  
“Just a special. You can get pancakes or something.”  
  
“Oh, nice!” He pushes through the doors with enthusiasm, leaving Tony to trail after him as he finds a seat by the window.  
  
Tony lets his eyes drift over the other customers: an old man clutching a cup of coffee; a man in a suit pouring golden syrup over his pancakes; a woman trying to get two toddlers to stop throwing bacon at each other.  
  
“Good morning, gentlemen,” a waitress says, almost before Tony has sat down. “What can I get you?”  
  
“Uh…” Peter skims the menu. “Can I have pancakes with sausage and bacon, please?”  
  
“Same for me, with eggs. Sunny side up,” Tony says, “and coffee, please.”  
  
“All right,” she says, scrawling on her notepad. “That’ll be right out.”  
  
“Thank you.” Peter leans forward. “Okay, so I think we need to check out the mystery spot. That’s the most obvious weird thing in this place.”  
  
“So do we do the tourist thing? Or wait until tonight?”  
  
“It’s closed today,” Peter says.  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“Uh, Google?”  
  
“Right,” Tony says. “Of course.”  
  
“Coffee?”  
  
“Yes, please,” they say together.  
  
Tony smiles at the waitress. “Uh, no. Not for him.”  
  
“C’mon, please?”  
  
“Sorry, your daddy said no,” the waitress says with a grin as she pours a cup for Tony. “Although how you can say no to that face, I have no idea.”  
  
“I resist,” Tony tells her dramatically, and holds Peter’s beseeching gaze as he takes a sip. “No.”  
  
“I don’t understand that word in relation to my caffeine needs.”  
  
“I’m putting my foot down.”  
  
“I’m calling Rhodey. This is child abuse.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
Their waitress is back. “Two pancakes, bacon, sausage – and one with eggs.” A teaspoon slips off her tray and clatters to the floor, and she picks it up as she turns to leave.  
  
“Go on, eat up. Growing boy. Protein. And stuff.”  
  
“And stuff,” Peter repeats around a mouthful of food.  
  
“I said what I said. Soon as we’re done, we’ll pick up our stuff from the hotel, and head over for a bit of B and E.”  
  
“Like hardened criminals,” Peter agrees, and swipes the coffee mug before Tony can stop him.  
  


* * *

  
“Hey, be careful.” Tony flashes his torch behind him to make sure they’re not being followed. There’s no reason they would be; he’d picked the locks and opened the door with barely a sound. Still, better safe than sorry.  
  
“Why?” Peter holds his own flashlight under his chin, an exaggeratedly creepy smile on his face. “Because here in the Mystery Spot, nothing is as it seems?”  
  
Sure. The weird, squiggly circles of glow in the dark paint and oddly-angled walls are really selling it.  
  
“Nothing is ever as it seems. Not in this job.”  
  
Peter sighs. “You’re right. Sorry.”  
  
“Ooh, what a beautiful sound. ‘You’re right, Mr Stark’. Music to my ears.”  
  
They move into the next room, taking in the table glued to the ceiling with some consternation.  
  
“Wow,” Peter says under his breath, barely stifling a laugh. “Look at that, Mr Stark. Truly, there is no explanation for this.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “Good work finding this place, Pete. Don’t know what to make of it. Strange things are going on here.”  
  
“My bad?” Peter offers. “At least we can count out Mr Hassleback being here. Probably.”  
  
“Yeah, gonna go with your missing David Hasselhoff isn’t here. Maybe it’s just a tragic accident this time.”  
  
“Yeah. Sorry. It was a long way down here.”  
  
“Everything is worth checking out,” Tony says. “At least now we know–“  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Peter jumps and whirls around, pointing his torch at the voice.  
  
“How the hell’d you get in here?” It’s an older man, face twisted somewhere between rage and terror. And he’s pointing a shotgun right at Peter’s chest.  
  
“Hey, now,” Tony says, a calm in his voice that’s completely at odds with the way his heart is pounding in his chest. “Sir, please put the gun down.”  
  
“Who are you? What are you doing in here?”  
  
“We’re very sorry, we thought we heard a noise and wanted to–“  
  
“Bullshit. No one’s in here except you.” He thrusts the gun forward a little, takes a step towards Peter. His hands are trembling, fingers too close to the trigger for comfort.  
  
“Whoa,” Tony says sharply. “No need for that, all right? We’re leaving. Kid. Let’s go.”  
  
Peter nods. “Sir, I’m gonna–“  
  
“Don’t move!”  
  
“I’m just walking backwards–“  
  
The man’s hand jerks. His finger catches the trigger. The force throws Peter six feet backwards.  
  
“Fuck!” Tony dives across the room and lands on his knees next to Peter. It must have just hit his shoulder, his hip, somewhere that’s not vital. “You, call 911! Peter? Peter, can you hear me?”  
  
Peter stares at the ceiling.  
  
“I didn’t mean…”  
  
“Call 9-1-fucking-1!” Tony snarls, and scoops Peter off the ground. There’s blood, too much. Spattered on the kid’s face. Leaking through Tony’s fingers. “Hey, Peter. Can you hear me?”  
  
“I’m so sorry!” the man wails. “Oh, God, he’s just a kid!”  
  
“Peter,” Tony says, more insistent now. His gaze meets glassy eyes, staring upwards, no life, no spark. “Hey, no. Wake up, kid. No tapping out. Not allowed.”  
  
Nothing.  
  
“…Pete?”  
  
This isn’t possible. They were just talking. They’d just been talking.  
  
“No,” Tony says, because this – this isn’t happening. Not if he refuses to accept it. “No, Peter, no, no…” His breath catches in his throat; this isn’t a nightmare, isn’t an illusion. It’s all too horrifyingly real. “No, kid–“  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
Something shifts in the bed beside him, letting out a sleepy groan.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages,” Peter mumbles, his hair mussed, eyes bleary. But alive. “You okay?”  
  
Tony blinks a couple of times to make sure he doesn’t disappear. “Weird dream.”  
  
That’s all it was, right? Another dream. A weirdly specific, vivid dream. It didn’t happen. How can he deny the evidence of his own eyes?  
  
“Okay, can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
 _Weird_. “Diner down the street,” Tony says. “Get dressed in the bathroom, go on.”  
  
Peter does, emerging a few minutes later in the same grey T-shirt with the same telekinesis joke.  
  
“Do you get it?” Peter asks, and Tony realises he’s been staring at it a little too long. “MJ got it for me.”  
  
Shaking himself, Tony manages a grin. “She’s got a good sense of humour, then.”  
  
“Yeah. Ben got me some other shirts like this before, well…” Peter trails off, his eyes going distant for a moment, before he’s back and brimming with energy again. “They’re funny. I’ll show you when we get home.”  
  
“Looking forward to it,” Tony drawls. “Let me get ready, and we’ll go and find food. And coffee.”  
  


* * *

  
“It’s Tuesday, right?” Peter’s brow furrows as he reads the boards outside the diner. “What’s a pig and a poke?”  
  
Tony stares, trying very hard not to panic. “Uh, they probably do – pancakes, or something.”  
  
“Oh, nice!” Peter pushes through the door, leaving Tony frozen on the street for a second.  
  
Grumpy old man with his coffee. Man in the suit with pancakes and syrup. Mom with her two toddlers. Peter sliding into a seat by the window.  
  
What’s happening to him? Why is this happening again?  
  
“Good morning, gentlemen,” a waitress says, almost before he’s taken his seat. “What can I get you?”  
  
“Uh…” Peter skims the menu. “Can I have pancakes with sausage and bacon, please?”  
  
“Perfect,” she says, and then they both look at Tony.  
  
“Uh–” he stammers. “The same, please. And eggs.”  
  
“How’d you like them?”  
  
“Sunny side up?”  
  
“Of course, sir. That’ll be right out for you.”  
  
“And coffee, please. Just for me.”  
  
“Aww,” Peter says. “Please?”  
  
“Sorry,” the waitress says with a grin. “Your daddy said no. Although how you can say no to that face, I have no idea.”  
  
“I’m calling Rhodey,” Peter says as she turns to walk away. “This is child abuse.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Tony says, distracted. It’s all exactly the same. _Why is it the same?_  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, just having a bit of a weird one.” He focuses back on Peter. “So, that place is closed today, right?”  
  
“How’d you know that?”  
  
 _Shit_. “I, much like you, my young Padawan, have discovered the power of Google.”  
  
“Coffee for you, sir,” the waitress says. “Sorry, kid.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tony says, and waits for her to walk away. “As I was saying, maybe we could start out today by asking around town, seeing if anyone remembers your missing dude.”  
  
“Oh,” Peter says, a little deflated. “I thought we were gonna check out the mystery spot. Most obviously weird place around here, right?”  
  
“Easier to blend in when there’s a crowd,” Tony says smoothly. _A shot. Blood. Peter’s lifeless eyes.  
_  
“Two pancakes,” their waitress says, appearing with their food, “bacon, sausage – and one with eggs.” A teaspoon slips off her tray and clatters to the floor, and she picks it up as she turns to leave.

 _What the fuck?  
_  
“Okay,” Peter agrees. “I have some pictures of him printed out back at the hotel. We can use those.”  
  
“Sounds good.” Tony picks his mug off the table just as Peter makes to swipe it. “Nuh-uh.”  
  
“Aw, _man_.”  
  


* * *

  
They’re laughing, walking down the sidewalk together, skirting a couple of removal guys struggling with a piano, normal, happy, the strangeness gone from Tony’s mind for a second – and then a dog appears from nowhere, leash trailing behind it, and runs into the street. Peter darts after it, eyes wide in alarm–  
  
Tony flinches at the _crack_ that follows, the sickening _crunch_ of something – metal or bone. The traffic screeches to a halt, and he has to blink once, twice, again, because his brain won’t process what’s right in front of him.  
  
“Oh, my God!”  
  
“He came out of nowhere–!”  
  
“Someone call 911, quickly.”  
  
He pushes through the gathering crowd, falling to his knees beside the crumpled figure.  
  
“Sir, I think we should give him some space–“  
  
“Peter,” Tony says. Too loud. Blood roars in his ears. There’s blood on the kid’s face. “Peter?”  
  
“Oh, God…”  
  
“Is that his son?”  
  
“Peter.” Tony tries not to panic, tries to remember the basics. He brushes his fingers under Peter’s nose, praying he’ll feel a breath.  
  
 _Not again, not again, please…  
_  
“Peter, kid, come on. Come on.”  
  
“Sir, an ambulance is on the way–“  
  
“Hey, keep that dog back–“  
  
The dog. The fucking dog is fine. Of course.  
  
“Peter,” Tony says again, and his voice cracks without permission. He’s still, so still. “Kid, don’t do this to me, come on. Come on–“  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
Bed creaking. Sleepy groan.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages,” Peter mumbles into his pillow.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
“Saw a diner down the road. Get dressed in there.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
As soon as Peter’s in the bathroom, door locked behind him, Tony turns over and screams into his pillow.  
  


* * *

  
“Two pancakes, sausage and bacon for you, and one with eggs.”  
  
“Thank you,” Peter says.  
  
A teaspoon slips off her tray and before Tony realises what he’s doing, his hand shoots out to catch it.  
  
“Oh,” the waitress says, ”thank you, sir.”  
  
“Whoa,” Peter breathes as she takes the spoon and leaves, “that was cool. How’d you do that?”  
  
“A lifetime of fighting, kid, and also living with Rhodey during a prank war that, admittedly, I started.”  
  
Peter snorts and digs into his breakfast.  
  


* * *

  
“Right, so we should go today while the place is closed,” Peter says. A dog barks behind them.  
  
“Nope,” Tony says, hands in his pockets as they walk down the street together. “Easier to blend in when there’s a crowd. People are trigger-happy around here.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“Call it a hunch.”  
  
“Okay,” Peter says with a bemused grin. “Oh! Hello! Hi!”  
  
Tony turns to see him crouched further down the street, fussing a dog: the same dog that had run into the road.  
  
“Pete, be careful.”  
  
“It’s a _dog_ , Mr Stark! Awww, hi! Hi! Oh, good boy. _Good_ boy.”  
  
Tony can’t help the fond smile. He’s a fucking marshmallow, and it’s all Peter’s fault. “Come on. Research time. Gotta figure out this mystery spot shit.” _And why it loves Tuesdays so much._  
  
“Fine.” Peter gives the dog a reluctant last pat, and Tony turns to keep walking.  
  
He’s only taken a couple of steps when there’s a thunderous crash behind him, and he jolts, spins.  
  
The dog has bolted down the street, and there a pile of wood in the middle of the sidewalk. Ivory keys scattered everywhere. Carved legs snapped and splintered. A piano. Tony glances up, sees the two removal guys looking down with horror on their faces.  
  
 _Shit_. “Kid?” Tony inches closer. _Please please please_. “Peter? Peter!”  
  
There’s a foot sticking out from under the piano. One of Peter’s sneakers.  
  
Tony turns to the side and vomits.  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
 _Fuck_ , Tony thinks to himself.  
  
Two’s a coincidence. Three’s a pattern. Four is irrefutable. Today – is it day nine? Ten? He’s lost count – there’s no denying it. He’s in a time loop. Like fucking Groundhog Day.  
  
It’s always the same. He wakes up to Traffic playing on the radio alarm. Peter always says the same things, wears the same clothes, orders the same breakfast. The waitress always laughs at him asking for coffee, drops her spoon. The people in the diner stay the same.  
  
And Peter always dies.  
  
Like Tony’s nightmares, but worse.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
And here they go again.  
  


* * *

  
“It’s Tuesday, right? What’s a pig and a poke?”  
  
“Bet they do waffles, too,” Tony tries.  
  
“Oh, nice!”  
  
Old man with coffee. Man in the suit with pancakes. Mom with two toddlers. Peter in the window seat.  
  
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the waitress says, almost before he’s taken his seat. “What can I get you?”  
  
“Uh…” Peter skims the menu. “Can I have pancakes with sausage and bacon, please?”  
  
“Perfect,” she says, and they both turn to Tony.  
  
 _Something different. Try something different_. “Waffles with eggs, please, poached. And coffee.”  
  
“Of course. That’ll be right out.”  
  
“That’s – weirdly healthy,” Peter says. “Are you feeling okay?”  
  
“Waffles are healthy?” Tony says in despair. “I’ve ruined you, kid.”  
  
“Coffee,” the waitress says.  
  
“Thanks,” they reply at the same time, and Tony lets it go. Caffeine is hardly the biggest health hazard in this fucking town.  
  
“You’re quiet this morning,” Peter notes. “Is everything okay?”  
  
“Fine. Fine, just tired from yesterday.” _And the day before that, and the day before that.  
_  
“Ugh, yeah, that was long.”  
  
“Pancakes with sausage and bacon, and waffles and a poached egg. Enjoy.” She turns away, and this time, Tony lets the spoon fall.  
  
“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” Peter says, shovelling food into his mouth. “Are you mad at me?”  
  
“No!” Tony says loudly. “No, of course not. Hey, slow down.”  
  
“You’ve been really quiet, so I just thought–“ Peter stops.  
  
Tony’s head snaps up. Peter’s mouth is opening and closing, one hand moving towards his throat. There’s panic in his eyes.  
  
“Pete, you okay?” Tony says. “Kid?”  
  
A wheezing gasp.  
  
“Peter–!”  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
“Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
Is this hell? Is it hell he’s in? Some horrific extended illusion from the fear spirit? Did they ever even escape the djinn?  
  
They need to do things differently, Tony decides. Slower. Later. If everything – the dog, the car, the piano, God knows what else – happens at a set time, he needs to delay until all that shit is over with. He groans and rolls out of bed, reaching over to turn the alarm off.  
  
“What’re you doin’?”  
  
Door’s locked. Good. Curtains are still pulled.  
  
“Mr Stark,” Peter says more insistently, “what are you doing?”  
  
“Stay down,” Tony says, sharp, and to his credit, Peter does. He cracks the curtains, searching for anything heading their way.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Peter whispers. When Tony turns back, he has one of his knives in hand.  
  
“Where did that come from? Was it under your pillow?”  
  
Peter looks affronted. “Always be prepared.”  
  
“This isn’t the goddamn Boy Scouts.” Tony sighs. He’s sixteen and sleeps with a knife, but that’s a piddling problem compared with everything else. “All right. All clear. False, uh, false alarm.”  
  
“Okay.” The kid stretches and yawns. “Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
“Uhh, how about you go have a shower? Take your time.”  
  
“Are you saying I smell?”  
  
“No, just that there’s no rush.”  
  
Peter frowns at him. “Okay. If you say so.” He rolls out of bed and traipses over to the bathroom. Tony only relaxes when he hears the shower start running.  
  
“When you’re done, we’ll grab some food from that diner down the street,” he calls.  
  
“What diner?”  
  
“Saw it on the map.”  
  
“Okay,” Peter says. “Why are you being so weird?”  
  
“You’ll thank me when it’s Wednesday!”  
  
“Whatever _that_ means.” There’s a sound like Peter pulling back the shower curtain – and a yell, a thud, a sickening crack.  
  
“Peter?” Tony jumps to his feet. “Peter–!”  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
Bed creaking. Sleepy groan. “Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
Peter’s not even safe in the fucking bathroom. Tony wants to cry.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Fine. It’s still early. You can go back to sleep.”  
  
“But I’m hungry. Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
“Maybe a diner, but seriously – if you want to sleep in a bit, you can.”  
  
Peter just groans and rolls out of bed.  
  
“Where you going?” Tony sits up, hair standing up on the back of his neck.  
  
“Uh, bathroom?”  
  
“You don’t need to use the bathroom.”  
  
“I need to change and I need to pee. Stop being weird.” Peter huffs and shuts the door behind him.  
  
No shower. He’s not in the shower.  
  
“Hey, there’s a weird plug thing in here! What’s that for?”  
  
“Don’t mess with electricity–“  
  
 _Thud_.  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
“Haven’t heard this in ages,” Peter murmurs.  
  
Tony rolls over, wondering if he can suffocate himself in his own pillow.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m in hell,” Tony says with a deep sigh.  
  
“Florida, but close.”  
  
“Oh?” That’s enough to distract Tony. “Isn’t Florida Disneyland and shit? The land of magic? Dreams coming true?”  
  
“Uh, no? It’s our own personal American Australia. Dangerous animals. The swamps. Rare big cats. Rogue weather. Thunderstorms like clockwork. Theme parks. Fucking – rocket launch pads. It’s the weirdest shit.”  
  
Tony can’t help but laugh, and for a minute, forgets. _This kid_.  
  
“Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
And they’re back in the room. Or rather, the time loop.  
  
 _No diner_ , Tony decides on a whim. That’s their constant. No going out at all. “Uhh, we could order something in? Maybe a breakfast burrito or something?”  
  
“Sure, sounds good.”  
  


* * *

  
Peter looks up, mouth full, eyebrows pulling together in confusion.  
  
“What?” Tony demands, his throat closing over. “What – what–?”  
  
“Do these tacos taste funny to you?”  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
Tony doesn’t dare open his eyes. He can hear Peter shifting next to him, pushing his sheets back with a groan.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
 _Breathe. Breathe_. So no tacos. He just has to find somewhere else in this stupid town to satisfy the appetite of a teenage boy – but that will take them off their normal route, open up hundreds of new possibilities. He keeps things the same: Peter dies. He tries something new: Peter dies. There’s no winning.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Fine,” Tony manages.  
  
“Okay, can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
The man. The owner. The one who’d shot Peter, so many Tuesdays ago. The one who’d started all of this.  
  
“How about something to go? I feel like getting an early start on this mystery place.”  
  
“Mystery spot.”  
  
“That’s the one.”  
  


* * *

  
“Listen,” the owner cries, and Tony’s just about had enough of his voice. This bastard shot Peter. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. I’ll pay you. I’ll – just, please. Please don’t hurt me.” He flinches away as Tony moves forward, but his bindings hold firm despite the rickety old chair Tony had shoved him in.  
  
“You own this place?” Tony demands.  
  
“Yeah, man. What…?”  
  
“The fuck kinda show are you running here? Huh?” Tony’s hands find their way to his belt, pull out the knife. “You a sorcerer?”  
  
“Whoa, man! I have no idea what you mean!”  
  
“Mr Stark?”  
  
 _Shit_. He’d sent Peter off to do a ‘perimeter check’, however the kid chose to interpret that bullshit, but now he’s done, back, and looking confused, concerned, afraid.  
  
“Mr Stark,” Peter says, “give me the knife.”  
  
“Stand back, kid. You don’t understand what’s been happening.”  
  
“Nothing’s been _happening_ , we got here yesterday–“  
  
“Yeah, that’s what he wants you to think.”  
  
“Mr Stark–“  
  
“Peter, stand back, okay?”  
  
“Put the knife down,” Peter says, and closes his hand around Tony’s. “This isn’t you. Something’s wrong.”  
  
“No shit, something’s wrong.” Tony tries to wrench his hand back, but Peter’s holding it too tightly. “Peter, let go–“  
  
“Stop it, you’re being weird–“  
  
He doesn’t know what happens, whether his grip slips or Peter pulls too hard, but he blinks and his knife is in Peter’s ribs.  
  
Peter gasps, red spilling out between his fingers, down the grey shirt his friend had bought him, and it’s all of Tony’s nightmares, it’s _Peter_ and _blood_ –  
  
But he never imagined that he might be the one to do this, that his hand would hold the knife.  
  
“Oh my God–“  
  
“Mr Stark,” Peter wheezes, his chest rattling as he drags in a breath; it’s a sound that tells Tony he’s hit something vital. On his kid.  
  
“Oh, my God,” Tony says again. _No, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening_. “Shit, kid–“  
  
What if this is the day – the one fucking time it stops? No more loop.  
  
Peter sways on his feet, falling into Tony, and he catches him, cradles him.  
  
“It’s okay,” he breathes, “it’s gonna be okay, kid.” _Please be okay. Please_.  
  
Peter’s gripping the front of his shirt like a child seeking comfort, and Tony can’t look at him, he can’t, _he did this–_  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
For the first time, Tony’s relieved to hear the goddamned song. He runs a hand through his hair and lays back down, throwing his arms over his face.  
  
“Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
“‘S’fucking overplayed,” Tony mumbles. Oh, good. He’s making jokes about this now. He’s finally fucking cracked.  
  
“All right, Mr Seventies Rock.” Peter’s bed creaks. “Are you okay?”  
  
“No,” Tony says with a sigh.  
  
“Do you feel bad? Dodgy airplane food? Headache? I can run down the street, try and find some Tylenol or something?”  
  
“No,” Tony says quickly. “No, don’t worry. It’s not – just stay here.” Not that the room is any safer than outside, but he still doesn’t want to let the kid out of his sight.  
  
“Okay.” Shuffling footsteps, and then Tony’s mattress dips. “So what’s up?”  
  
Tony sighs, dropping his arms and meeting Peter’s concerned gaze. “I’m in a time loop.”  
  
Silence. Peter’s forehead furrows, just a little.  
  
“I’m living the same day over and over.”  
  
“You’re not making sense.”  
  
“Well, obviously not,” Tony says. “Yesterday was Tuesday, but today is Tuesday, too. Tomorrow will be Tuesday, and the day after. How does that make sense?”  
  
The frown deepens.  
  
“Every day I wake up to that fucking rectangle playing Traffic, and you say you haven’t heard it in ages, and you get dressed in a grey shirt that says ‘if you believe in telekinesis, raise my hand’, and we go to the diner and you try to steal my coffee and the waitress drops her spoon. Over and over, the same day. Same shit, same day.”  
  
“That sounds…way too specific for you to have made up,” Peter says. “I assume – I mean, I don’t remember it, so I guess I’m resetting like everything else.”  
  
“Yeah.” _Thank God_. “I’m just – I’m tired, kid.”  
  
“Sorry.” Peter looks down. “I’m probably not being very helpful – just saying and doing the same shit every day. Bet we’ve had this conversation loads of times already.”  
  
Tony reaches out and cups the back of Peter’s neck, rubs his thumb through the hair curling around his nape. He needs to fix this. He needs to something, or each day will end with this, his kid, getting torn away from him in a new and horrific way.  
  
“Sorry,” Peter whispers, “sorry about whatever happened that made you sad. I’m sorry I can’t help.”  
  
“You are helping,” Tony says softly.  
  
“How long have you been doing this?”  
  
“Easily three months. Shit, we might even be at a hundred days now.”  
  
“Shit, that’s a long time.”  
  
“Uh-huh. And today – I’m not doing anything. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”  
  
“You can’t let it beat you–“  
  
“I’m not,” Tony insists. “It’s going to reset no matter what I do, so – just this one day.”  
  
“Maybe today’s the day you solve it.”  
  
“Nope, today’s the day I would drive the proverbial groundhog off the cliff, and I’m trying to avoid that at all costs. I just know, if I have to do it again, I’m going to lose it.”  
  
“Okay,” Peter says.  
  
“Just okay?”  
  
“I’m getting used to a lot of weird shit, living with you.”  
  
“Fair.” Tony squeezes the back of Peter’s neck one last time. He has to fix this. He has to.  
  


* * *

  
It doesn’t last. Of course it doesn’t.  
  
They get so close to midnight – and Tony starts to wonder if this is all he has to do, watch the clock tick over into Wednesday, keep Peter alive, like it isn’t ingrained into every thought, every instinct of his anyway.  
  
But they stay on Tony’s bed for hours, just talking, ignoring the inevitable, until Peter apologises but he really can’t hold his pee in any longer, gets up to go to the bathroom and trips, cracking his head on the bedpost.  
  
Tony put his hands over his face and cries.  
  


* * *

  
He blinks awake to soft strains of guitar, and shoots bolt upright.  
  
 _“Dear Mr Fantasy, play us a tune…”  
_  
“Haven’t heard this in ages.”  
  
 _Fuck it_. ”Me neither,” Tony agrees.  
  
“Can we get food? What is there around here, anyway?”  
  
“Pretty sure there’s a diner down the road. How about you get dressed in the bathroom, yeah? Be careful.”  
  
“‘M always careful,” Peter says, sounding like he’s holding back a yawn, and makes his usual sleepy way into the bathroom.  
  


* * *

  
“It’s Tuesday, right? What’s a pig and a poke?”  
  
“There’s probably waffles or pancakes or something.”  
  
“Oh, nice!”  
  
Old man and his coffee. Businessman and his pancakes. Mom and two toddlers – wait.  
  
Tony stops, turns on his heel, and strides over to the booth just as the man in the suit gets up and leaves.  
  
The syrup.  
  
“Mr Stark?” Peter says from behind him. “You’re staring at someone else’s pancakes.”  
  
“The syrup,” Tony breathes.  
  
“Hm? Yeah, it’s, uh, pretty red, I guess.”  
  
“The _syrup_ , Peter,” Tony says, spinning around and grasps his shoulders. “One hundred days of the same shit, over and over again. One hundred days of that guy having golden syrup on his pancakes. Why today? Why strawberry?”  
  
“ _What_ is actually happening?” Peter says, eyes wide in alarm.  
  
Tony just grins and turns again, bolting back out of the diner and down the street. “Hey!”  
  
The man doesn’t turn.  
  
“Hey, you!” Tony grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. “Who are you?”  
  
“Sorry, who are you? I have somewhere to be–“  
  
“Wrong answer,” Tony hisses, and shoves him back against the fence behind him, pulls his knife out.  
  
“What the hell–!”  
  
“Mr Stark?” Peter. Peter’s there. “You’re threatening some random guy with a knife in the middle of the street. Not to question your judgement, but _are you okay_?”  
  
“Listen to the child, Stark,” Syrup Guy says, and his face starts changing, hair darkening, eyes turning icy blue. “Remember what happened last time.”  
  
For a second, Tony’s too dumbfounded to do anything.  
  
“Okay…” Peter says, voice about an octave higher than normal, “he just turned into another dude. Okay.”  
  
“ _You_ ,” Tony snarls, and tightens his grip, presses the knife in further. Loki smirks back at him.  
  
“Long time, no see. How’s your friend? Rhodey, wasn’t it? And the lovely Virginia–“  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“And your mother–“  
  
“I said shut _up_!”  
  
Loki grins and puts his hands up.  
  
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Tony says.  
  
“Well, I’m not the only one.” And he inclines his head towards Peter.  
  
“Dude, what–?”  
  
“Don’t even _look_ at him – wait. You did this?”  
  
“I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.”  
  
Something in Tony snaps. Breaks. He’s done. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever magic bullshit – undo it. Stop all of it. If I have to live through one more fucking Tuesday–“  
  
“I’m taking crazy pills,” Peter whimpers. “I’m going mad.”  
  
Loki sighs, checking his nails, like Tony isn’t pressing a knife into his jugular. “Ah, well. Fun though this was, I suppose my experiment must come to an end.”  
  
“Experiment?” Peter says.  
  
“Just testing a theory, child. Unfortunately for me – and all of existence – I was right.”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll soon see.” Loki sighs again.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, am I _inconveniencing_ you?”  
  
“Always,” Loki says. “Killing me? Such a pain in the arse.”  
  
“Undo your bullshit, or I’ll be much more than a pain in your ass.”  
  
A smirk. “Fine.” And Loki snaps his fingers.  
  
Tony flinches, but nothing happens, nothing changes. “Is that it? Can we leave? Nothing will happen? This whole thing won’t reset at midnight?”  
  
“It won’t reset at midnight,” Loki says. “Is that all?”  
  
“Is that–? Are you kidding?”  
  
But Loki just waves and fades right out of Tony’s hand, like grabbing at mist.  
  


* * *

  
 _“Sun is shining in the sky, there ain’t a cloud in sight…”  
_  
“Nope. Too much energy.” A hand flops out of Peter’s bed, searching for the alarm. “Not at this time of the morning, thank you.”  
  
Tony doesn’t breathe, hardly daring to hope.  
  
“Misser S’ark, turn it off.”  
  
“Uh-huh,”’ Tony manages. _It’s different it’s different it’s different–_  
  
“Wait.” Peter sits up, phone in hand. “It – it’s Wednesday? It was Monday yesterday.”  
  
“It’s Wednesday?” Tony whispers.  
  
“Have we slept through an entire day? What the fuck?”  
  
“It’s Wednesday!” he cries, and bounces out of bed, over towards Peter.  
  
“Why are you happy about this–?”  
  
“It’s Wednesday.” Tony grabs Peter’s face and kisses the top of his head.  
  
“You keep saying–“  
  
“ _Wednesday_ , Peter.”  
  
“I will never understand you,” Peter announces, but he lets Tony hug him without complaint.  
  


* * *

  
“Soon as we’re on the road, you call Rhodey, okay? Tell him there’s nothing here–“  
  
“Nothing? We missed a whole day! Anything could have happened!”  
  
“I know,” Tony says gently, “and I’ll explain, I promise. It’s just – a lot.”  
  
“Okay.” Peter sounds unconvinced. “And you think that Mr Hasselback guy is just – gone.”  
  
“Sorry, buddy.”  
  
“I still don’t understand,” Peter says, but there he is, going along with it anyway, because his faith in Tony is that unshakeable.  
  
 _Remember when you stabbed him–?  
_  
“Gonna take this out to the car. Is there anything else to pack?”  
  
“Don’t leave any knives under your pillow.”  
  
Peter frowns. “How did you–?”  
  
“Later.”  
  
“Cryptic doesn’t suit you,” the kid complains, and starts lugging the cases out of the door towards the car.  
  
Tony drops onto the bed, leaning over his knees. It’s Wednesday. Fucking Wednesday.  
  
Yelling. A gunshot.  
  
“Peter!” Tony cries, bolting outside. He sees something on the floor by their rental car and skids to his knees, pulling Peter into his lap. “Peter, Peter, hey–“  
  
Peter’s gasping, clutching at the hole in his chest, blood spilling down his blue ‘Find x’ shirt. Whoever did this is already gone. It’s just Tony, holding his kid on the floor of a parking lot.  
  
At first he’s sad, sad it happened again. Confused at how different it was. Apathetic, waiting for it to reset.  
  
No. It’s Wednesday. _It’s Wednesday_. There’s no reset. _It won’t reset at midnight_.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” he says. Peter grabs his hand, fingers clenching spasmodically.  
  
“Mr Stark…”  
  
“Hey, come on, don’t – keep looking at me. Look at me, Peter.”  
  
His eyelids are fluttering closed. Tony grabs his face, not caring that he paints a bloody streak across his cheek.  
  
“Peter, look at me!”  
  
And Peter tries. One last shuddering effort, and his gaze meets Tony’s. A goodbye. A sorry.  
  
“No, kid, come on – it’s Wednesday. You’re supposed to be fine. It’s Wednesday, Peter.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Peter,” Tony begs, “no, no, this isn’t – shit. Peter, _please_.”  
  
Peter’s dead. It’s Wednesday. Tony picks Peter up, gently cradling him against his chest, and walks back inside, lays him out on the bed as if he’s sleeping. Then he pulls out his phone.  
  


* * *

  
“Tony?” Rhodey pushes the door of the hotel room inwards. He can probably smell the alcohol already. “Tones?” He stops when he sees the bed, Tony sitting on the floor, the whiskey. Peter. “Oh, God.”  
  
“He was supposed to be okay,” Tony whispers. “It’s Wednesday.”  
  
“I know it’s Wednesday. Spent all of Tuesday wondering when the hell I was gonna hear from you.” But despite his sharp words, Rhodey’s breaking apart, tearing at the seams. He loves Peter too.  
  
“‘S’okay,” Tony says, only slurring a little. “We just gotta – wait. ‘Til midnight. And then ‘s’all gonna…” He makes a _poof_ motion with the hand that isn’t clenched around his bottle.  
  
“Jesus.” Rhodey sits on the other bed, rubbing his hands over his face. “I shouldn’t have let you come down here on your own, man.”  
  
“Should’ve called you. So many Tuesdays ago.”  
  
“We were supposed to keep him safe,” Rhodey whispers.  
  
“‘S’almost midnight,” Tony says.  
  
“You’re not making _sense_!” Rhodey barks. “Shit – sorry. Sorry. Just – the kid–“  
  
“Gonna reset,” Tony says. “Groundhog Day, man.”  
  
They sit and wait. Midnight comes. It passes. Nothing changes.  
  
“Shit,” Tony says, and takes a long drink.  
  


* * *

  
“You were stuck in a – Loki stuck you in a time loop?”  
  
Tony nods, looking somewhere a little bit to the left of Peter’s pale face.  
  
“And now you’re out, and…” Rhodey sighs. “I – Tones, I’m sorry, we need to move him.”  
  
“Loki?”  
  
“The kid.”  
  
“No,” Tony bites out. He knows what that means. It means a funeral, and that’s – that’s final. Permanent.  
  
“All right. There’s a camp bed over here I’m gonna set up. Just – we need to do something. Soon. It’s not fair on either of you.”  
  


* * *

  
Rhodey manages to sleep. Tony doesn’t.  
  
He stares up at the ceiling, studiously ignoring what’s in the bed to the left of him.  
  
This can’t be it. Not after everything, all he’s done to keep Peter safe. It’s not fair. That’s his kid. The son Tony was never supposed to have. And now he’s gone, because of some bullshit magic.  
  
 _Shit.  
_  
It’s so simple. He hates himself for not thinking of it before.  
  
Strange.  
  
He sits up, going straight for his phone, and scrolls through his contacts until he finds ‘Useless Wizard’. He calls, and when Strange doesn’t pick up, he calls again.  
  
 _“Stark? It’s three in the morning.”  
_  
“You people sleep? Listen, I need you here. Now. Please.”  
  
 _“Where is here?”  
_  
“Broward County, Florida. Oakland Motel.”  
  
 _“My life doesn’t revolve around you, Stark.”  
_  
“Loki was here, and my kid is dead.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Strange?”  
  
A portal opens by the bathroom door, and Stephen Strange steps through. Tony scoffs and hangs up the call.  
  
“What the hell–?” Rhodey rolls over, gun already in hand, and flops down again when he sees who it is.  
  
“I called the wizard.”  
  
“Sorcerer.” Strange moves his hands through the air. “There are remnants of a spell here – powerful magic. You said Loki?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Strange’s necklace pulses. “Temporal magic.”  
  
“I was stuck in Tuesday,” Tony says, “and Peter kept dying. Over and over. And now he’s dead.”  
  
“Like your own personal hell,” Rhodey says. “Revenge, maybe?”  
  
“Like he hasn’t taken enough from me,” Tony mutters.  
  
Strange twists his lips in what might be sympathy. “I should be able to create a binding spell to hold him for a few minutes. We need to find somewhere quiet to summon him.”  
  
“You – you’re gonna help?”  
  
“God or not, Loki cannot disrupt the natural order of things. The time loops, your child’s death…” Strange’s gaze strays to the bed. “They would not have happened without his interference, and he must correct it.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tony whispers.  
  


* * *

  
“He’s showing off now,” Rhodey complains.  
  
Tony shrugs, soaring a glance for Strange in the middle of the empty warehouse, deep in what looks like a kung-fu fight with the air, and continues bouncing on the balls of his feet.  
  
He’s nervous. Worse than nervous, he’s terrified. If this doesn’t work…  
  
Except it has to, because there’s no other option.  
  
“Be ready,” Strange says, and launches a ball of orange light at the centre of the glowing circle he’s just spent half an hour drawing on the ground.  
  
There’s a blast of white light, and when it fades, Loki is standing in the middle of the circle.  
  
“Whoops,” he drawls, “you caught me.”  
  
“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Tony snarls, and starts forward. Rhodey grabs his arms, holds him back.  
  
“I’m assuming, since there’s no child yapping at your heels, that there was some latent magic left over? Enough to make sure he still died. Not enough to restart the loop, though.” Loki shrugs. “Tragic.”  
  
“Undo the spell,” Strange says.  
  
“No.”  
  
“If you think we won’t kill a god…” Rhodey says.  
  
“Trust me–“  
  
“No.”  
  
“ _Trust me_ when I say this is better,” Loki says. “For everyone.”  
  
Tony shakes his head. “You hate the kid that much? You sent a demon to kill his family, and him, and when that failed, you killed him over and over again?”  
  
“I sent a what?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb, man,” Rhodey says. “The Outriders are yours.”  
  
Loki glances between all three of them, the picture of amused bewilderment.  
  
“Six legs, no eyes, sharp teeth, fuck-ugly?”  
  
“Oh, those!”  
  
“Yeah, _those_ ,” Tony forces out.  
  
“Remember what I told you?” Strange murmurs. “The Outriders don’t only answer to him.”  
  
“Then who–?”  
  
“You’ve changed, Stark.” Loki still looks amused. Entertained, like he’s enjoying this immensely.  
  
“Well, the first time we met I was stabbing you with some godly sword or other, so you mightn’t have seen me properly–“  
  
“Not dead.”  
  
“What fucking _theory_ were you testing, asshole?”  
  
“That boy,” Loki says, and Tony freezes. “He’s your weakness. You want to protect him, no matter the price.”  
  
“Give him back,” Tony says, all the fight drained out of him. He’s so tired. “Please.”  
  
“It’s like you hear crickets when I talk. If I’ve noticed it, you can be sure others have too, and there are worse things in this world than me.”  
  
“Cut the bullshit, Reindeer Games,” Tony says. “I’ve killed you once, and I’ll happily do it again–“  
  
“Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but you clearly didn’t.”  
  
“Give me my kid back–!”  
  
“I’m only trying to prepare you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“There’s no point trying to save him. He’s going to die anyway. This is what your life without him will be like – or is like, since you had to interfere with the spell.” Loki sighs. “I suppose it might as well have been like this. You were always going to lose him.”  
  
“Not if I can help it.”  
  
“But you can’t.” For the first time, the expression on Loki’s face is something other than amusement. He looks confused. “You must know that you can’t.”  
  
Tony doesn’t say anything. What the fuck does he say to that?  
  
“Oh, you don’t? You don’t know? And he ended up with you…” There’s amusement again and then, inexplicably, fear. “How? Something must…”  
  
Rhodey squares his shoulders. “You’re just talking out of your ass now.”  
  
“The boy has to die. All I’m doing is holding off something much worse–“  
  
“Loki,” Strange says firmly, a warning in his voice, a spell dancing in his hand.  
  
“Fine, fine, whatever.” Loki waves his hand. “Of course. No one listens to me. The spell’s lifted. It will reset at midnight. He’ll wake up tomorrow all in one piece, and stay that way. Well, for a while.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Tones.” Rhodey’s tugging him backwards, away, towards the door.  
  
“What do you mean, I can’t save him?”  
  
“You really don’t know?” Loki shakes his head. “Ask the boy’s parents.” And he disappears. Like the circle never had a hold on him at all.  
  
“Jesus.” Tony’s knees start to give out and he leans on Rhodey, taking a few shaky breaths. “Jesus fucking Christ.”  
  
“Two hours, Tony,” Rhodey says. “Then midnight, and you’ll wake up again. You heard him, yeah? Kid’s gonna be fine.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Tony mutters. “What…what do you think he meant?”  
  
“…I don’t know, man. He could’ve just been trying to fuck with you–“  
  
“No. No, we know there’s something about Peter. From the first time we met him, we knew, but we still don’t know what. We don’t…”  
  
“It’s okay.” Rhodey snorts. “Well, no, it’s not, but…what do you wanna do? Head back into town?”  
  
“No.” Tony finally gives in and slides to the floor. “I need to sit. I need – I need a drink, but that’s not happening, so I need to just sit.”  
  
“Okay.” Rhodey nods. “I’m here, until you tell me to fuck off. I’m here.”  
  
“God, Rhodey–“  
  
“I’m here.”  
  
No one deserves James Rhodes, least of all Tony Stark.  
  
“I can’t sense the spell anymore,” Strange says. “Hopefully, he’ll keep his word this time. If not…” He conjures a spell in his palm. “It will be easier to summon him if we have to do it again.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tony says. “Just – thanks.”  
  
“Take care,” Strange says, and walks through a portal.  
  
“Midnight.” Tony sighs. “Midnight.”  
  


* * *

  
 _“Sun is shining in the sky, there ain’t a cloud in sight…”  
_  
“Ugh,” Peter grumbles. “‘S’too happy for this time of the morning.”  
  
 _“It’s a beautiful new day, hey-ey-ey.”  
_  
“Misser S’ark, turn it off!”  
  
Peter. _Peter_.  
  
Tony shoots out of bed and scrambles across the room, yanking Peter’s covers back.  
  
“Hey! What the hell–?””  
  
 _“Mr Blue Sky, please us why…”  
_  
“Peter,” Tony gasps.  
  
“Yes! God, who else?” Peter sits up, scrubbing at his eyes, and it’s _him_ and he’s _alive_ and _holy shit_. “Oh, hey, Rhodey. When’d you get here?”  
  
Tony turns to see Rhodey switching the alarm off; his camp bed is in the corner again. “Wednesday.”  
  
“‘S’Wednesday today.” Peter squints up at Tony, who can’t stop himself from bending down and pressing a kiss to the kid’s forehead. “Everything okay?”  
  
Tony looks at Rhodey. Rhodey looks at Tony. They both look at Peter.  
  
“…what?”  
  


* * *

  
“You’re telling me I died? More than once?”  
  
Mr Stark glances away before he nods. “More than a hundred times.”  
  
“Holy shit. And it was all Tuesday, but now – I don’t remember Tuesday. Any Tuesday.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I don’t remember any of it.” Peter shivers. “Why me?”  
  
Again, Mr Stark looks away. His jaw clenches. “Probably to mess with me. It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”  
  
“Tony,” Rhodey says reproachfully.  
  
They’re lying, both of them. They’re hiding something from him, but he’s worried that if he presses it right now, Mr Stark is going to scream or cry. Or both.  
  
So he says, “Okay,” and leaves it. For now, at least.  
  


* * *

  
The house is quiet once they get home.  
  
Mr Stark and Rhodey often have furious, hissed conversations when they think Peter can’t hear – asleep, doing schoolwork, training. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and is sure he sees Mr Stark hovering just outside his door. Mr Stark ticks off the days on his phone, on a physical calendar. Even Rhodey looks at him differently now, because Rhodey saw him dead too.  
  
He was _dead_. Peter shivers. Groundhog Day sounds a lot less fun now.  
  
They’re having another of their whisper-fights downstairs, so he sits at the top of the steps, rests his head against the railing.  
  
“Loki didn’t have a fucking clue how Peter ended up with us,” Mr Stark is saying. “I could see it on his face.”  
  
“He lies, Tony.”  
  
“I know he wasn’t. Not about this. And didn’t he seem different?”  
  
“Different from the bastard that got your mom killed?”  
  
“Yeah, actually. I – I don’t think he sent the demon after Peter. He said something worse was coming.” Mr Stark exhales heavily. “Something so bad that…”  
  
“I still don’t get his play. Was he trying to – make it permanent? Trap you in a time loop forever? Make you…?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mr Stark says, “I don’t know, Rhodey. Jesus. And why the kid? Why is it always the kid? What’s so bad that Loki needed to take Peter out of the equation?”  
  
Silence, then, “What do you think he meant about Peter’s parents?”  
  
In his shock, Peter’s foot slips, hitting the next step down with a thud so loud he flinches. He hears Mr Stark sigh heavily, and then he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, a tremulous smile on his face. “Hey, kid.”  
  
“What happened?” Peter whispers. “Please, just – tell me. Everything. Please. I know you’ve been hiding things.”  
  
Rhodey appears then, staring Mr Stark down. “I’ve said it before and you’re hearing it again: if you don’t tell him, I will.”  
  
“Yeah,” Mr Stark says, “yeah, okay. You deserved to know as soon as you walked through that front door. Come on.” He beckons towards the couch in the front room, and after a moment, Peter follows.  
  


* * *

  
They talk for hours.  
  
The Outrider demon. The way it tried to take Peter instead of ripping him to shreds. The shtriga calling him interesting. The way he woke himself from a djinn’s trance without help. The dream he had, telling him his parents kept him hidden.  
  
And now Loki. Loki, making Tony watch him die again and again, telling him this was the better option. Loki looking confused at the mention of the Outrider. Strange warning he wasn’t the only one able to control them. Loki bringing up Peter’s parents too.  
  
“That’s it,” Tony says eventually. “You know as much as we do.”  
  
Peter stares down at his hands. “My parents? What do they have to do with – with any of this? They died when I was four. What – why? Why would that thing try to take me? _Where_ was it taking me? For _who_?”  
  
“We don’t know.”  
  
“And what that Loki guy said – do you think something wanted us to meet? The same thing that sent the – the other thing – does something want _me_? Shit.”  
  
Tony watches him, waiting for the explosion. They’ve lied to Peter for months, getting on for a year. Lied to protect him, maybe, but still lied.  
  
“You didn’t even know that was what it was doing, though. And you still…”  
  
“Kidnapped you under false pretences?”  
  
“You still wanted to help me,” Peter says.  
  
“Of course. Couldn’t have you and your hero complex running around looking for monsters, especially when they might have been looking for you, as well.”  
  
Peter snorts. “But we can figure this out, right? What – all of this is.”  
  
 _We_. “Yeah, buddy. Whatever it is.”  
  
With a sigh, Peter flops against the back of the sofa. “That was – a lot.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“No, it’s…” Peter shuffles down the couch and rests his head on Tony’s shoulder. “I get why you didn’t tell me at first. That’s okay. But thank you for telling me now.”  
  
It’s Tony’s turn to sigh. “I wish I had more answers for you.”  
  
“We’ll find them. Maybe they’ll find us.”  
  
“Maybe.” Tony tried to focus on Peter’s weight on hi shoulder, his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest. Alive. _He’s going to die anyway. You’re going to lose him_.  
  
“I bet I was super annoying in that time loop, though.”  
  
“Constantly hungry and stealing my coffee.”  
  
“On brand for me.” Peter looks up at him. “Mr Stark, it’s gonna be okay.”  
  
How can he say that with such confidence? Why is he the one reassuring Tony? “I’ll make sure it is, kid. I promise.”  
  
“I know,” Peter says. “I trust you.”

**Author's Note:**

> my birthday present to myself is validation so please…love this
> 
> i'm on tumblr @akillerqueenwrites, or my main blog @akillerqueenyouare. come say hi, ask questions, leave prompts or just yell at me. i've also made a twitter, @killerqueenao3, if any of you want to talk to me there (it's mostly pictures of my dog). thank you for reading!


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